


The Curse of the Boyfriend Sweater

by f-ing-ruthless-baz (my_mad_fatuation)



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anniversary, Established Relationship, Fluff, Knitting, M/M, POV Simon, Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-07 18:37:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17965904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_mad_fatuation/pseuds/f-ing-ruthless-baz
Summary: It's been five years since Simon first kissed Baz in that burning forest, and every year from that point on he has knit Baz a lovely little gift to commemorate the occasion. Now, their fifth anniversary is a big deal, and Simon wants to do something big for Baz--but Baz doesn't want anything from him. What should Simon do? Make Baz a big cozy jumper, of course! He just has to beware of the curse...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a fun little fic about life post- _Carry On_ for our boys. It's set around their fifth anniversary, which I guess is technically in the future from right now, but oh well. Also the first scene is a bit of a flashback, but it should be clear when you read it.
> 
> Note: This was obviously written before Wayward Son came out, so any canon that comes after Carry On is not applicable to this fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone reads halfway through this chapter and decides to yell at me that their anniversary is actually December 24th, just keep reading. It all gets sorted out.

I guess it started with a hat.

I made Baz a hat for our one-year anniversary—well technically, I made it for him for Christmas, but because he was heading to his family’s place on the evening of the 23rd, I gave it to him early. (We’d talked about the possibility of me coming with him, but I wasn’t sure his family had yet forgiven me for what happened to their home last time I stayed for Christmas, so I didn’t think it was such a good idea.)

“Wow, Snow, I didn’t think you’d remember,” Baz said patronizingly when I handed him the poorly-wrapped gift before he was about to catch his train at King’s Cross.

I frowned at him a little. “You didn’t think I’d remember Christmas?” I asked, and his expression shifted very slightly.

“I meant our anniversary,” he said, though I could tell by his tone that he was less amused now.

“Wait, we have an anniversary?” I replied, somewhat surprised by this news and also by the fact that I’d never thought about it before.

“Well, I _thought_ we did.” Baz’s face flashed with hurt for a second before quickly reverting to a look of cool dispassion as he let his arm drop to his side, the gift still in his hand.

“No, right, of course we do,” I added quickly, shaking my head at my own foolishness. “I just wasn’t thinking. But yeah, that was last Christmas Eve, right? I can’t believe it’s been a whole year—”

“Not Christmas Eve.”

I frown again and start to wonder if my memory is really _that_ terrible. “But… wasn’t that the day we decided to be, like, a couple?”

“That’s not the anniversary I’m celebrating,” he said, adjusting the strap of his laptop bag on his shoulder with his free hand while he looked over at the departures board disinterestedly. He was trying to act like he didn’t care about any of this, but I knew him well enough by this point that I could tell it was bothering him.

I racked my brain to try and figure out what other anniversary he could possibly mean. Our first date hadn’t been until after the new year. And our first time… uh, well, let’s just say it definitely hadn’t been a year since then. The only other thing I could think of would be our first—

“Oh,” I said when I figured it out. “You mean the night before. When we kissed.”

“ _You_ kissed _me_ , technically,” Baz muttered, raising his eyebrows while still avoiding my eyes.

I let out a small chuckle, because he always liked to poke fun at me about that. “We didn’t even know what that meant at the time, though,” I pointed out.

He finally looked at me again. “Maybe you didn’t, Simon,” he said seriously, though the edge in his voice was gone. “But in that moment I knew. I knew that I was going to be yours until the day I died.” He let the words sink in for a second and then combed back the hair that had started to fall around his face as he looked away again. “Of course, I thought that was going to be the day I died, but still.”

I tried to hold back my smile as I reached for his arm. “Baz,”—I dragged his hand with the gift up in front of him again—“happy anniversary.”

He eyed me warily, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to stop being annoyed with me yet, but then sighed and started unwrapping it. I hadn’t bothered to put it in a box; I’d just wrapped a bunch of paper around it and held it together with approximately eighteen thousand pieces of tape.

“Crowley, Snow, who taught you to wrap a gift?” he grumbled as he tried to get all the paper off.

“No one,” I said, even though I knew it was a rhetorical question, but I noticed that it made the corner of his mouth curve up just a little.

Once he’d torn the package open enough to see what was inside, he looked back at me and smirked. “Aw, Snow, did you knit me a lump of coal?”

“It’s a hat, you knobhead," I said as he pulled the dark grey woollen _lump_ fully out of the paper.

“You know I don’t do hats,” he replied dryly, though he handed me back the shredded wrapping paper and opened the hat with both hands to examine it.

It was a slightly slouchy style of hat with geometric lacework detailing around it. Something that would have puzzled me to no end when I first took up knitting the previous winter—since I didn’t finish up my final year at Watford, I found myself with a lot more time on my hands and needed a hobby. (My very first project was just me knitting row after row of garter stitch with whatever bits of yarn I could get my hands on until I ended up with a really long, Fourth-Doctor-esque scarf.) (Baz thought it was hideous.)

My skill had improved a lot by this point, however, and I was able to use double-pointed needles and circular needles—cable hooks still scared me at the time, but I was working on it—so I was quite proud of what I’d managed to create for Baz. And I could tell by the way he was looking at it that he was a bit, too.

“Of course, you wouldn’t want anything to mess with your perfect hair,” I said, and then ruffled his hair up a bit before he caught my wrist. The damage was already done, however, because it was sticking out at odd angles in places. (He’d been getting it cut _slightly_ shorter since he started uni, which I complained about at first, but he pointed out that I’d had my wings and tail surgically removed despite his protests—I actually think he had a bit of a _thing_ for my tail, but it was just too uncomfortable for me to keep it—and that made us even.)

“You know, I was maybe going to let you kiss me goodbye before I left, but I don’t think I will if this is how you wanna play it,” he said, fixing me with a pseudo-threatening glare as he tightened his grip on me.

I pulled my wrist back and folded my arms across my chest like I was accepting the challenge. “Well, maybe I don’t even want to kiss you goodbye if you’re not going to wear the hat.”

His eyes narrowed at me like he knew I was bluffing, and we stared each other down for a minute. “Fine,” he said. “I guess I’ll just head on through to catch my train, then.” He gestured towards the ticket barriers and took a step back.

“Well, in that case I think I’m gonna go watch people make fools of themselves at the Platform 9¾ trolley,” I replied cheerfully, backing away from him as well. “Have a good time with your family, and tell them Happy Christmas for me.” I gave him a grin as I continued to walk backwards for a couple of steps—the way the smirk on his face dissipated as he realized that I was willing to take this thing all the way was too good not to watch—and then turned around and kept going.

“Snow,” he said impatiently once I was a few paces away, but I didn’t stop. “Snow!” he repeated, louder this time; I still didn’t even acknowledge him. “ _Simon_.”

I swivelled around on the ball of my foot to face him again, smiling pleasantly, though I stayed in place.

He scowled and harrumphed, shoving the hat onto his head, and then waited for me to return to him. Which I did, because it was all too adorable for me not to.

I fiddled with the placement of his hat a bit once I got there, because he’d just sort of slapped it on, while he kept scowling at me. “There,” I said as I made a few final tweaks. I let my hands fall to the outer edge of his shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Was that so hard?”

“You owe me big time, Snow.”

“Excuse me, but I just gave you a lovely hand-knit _Anniversary-stroke-Christmas_ present,” I said with mock indignation. “If anything, _you_ owe _me_ big time.”

He arched an eyebrow and started to tug a little at the sides of my jacket, acting like he was just straightening out creases so as not to arouse the suspicions of people walking by— _just two bros adjustin’ each other’s clothing in a railway station arm’s distance apart cuz they’re not gay_.

“You know I would, Snow,” he said, smirking as he inspected my appearance and brushed imaginary dirt off one of my lapels, “but I’ve got a train to catch in ten minutes.”

“Oh, shut up,” I replied before pulling him closer so I could kiss him. A surefire way to put an actual smile on his face. (So much for our cunning deception, though.)

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?” he asked quietly, pulling me in closer when I started to draw away.

“I don’t have a bag packed,” I pointed out. But we both knew I was just using that as an excuse.

“My parents’ house has everything you could possibly need. Obviously.” He gave me another small kiss.

“I already promised Penny I’d spend Christmas with her family, though…” I said, and he nodded in understanding, though I could tell he was a bit disappointed. “You should probably get to your platform now, anyway, so—”

“But I haven’t given you your gift yet,” he said as he backed away enough to reach into his bag and pull out a tiny box with a ribbon around it.

I opened the box eagerly and found that it contained a fine-chain necklace with a small lightning bolt pendant. And, surprisingly, I understood perfectly.

Baz once told me—after we’d been dating for a while—that when I’d pushed my magic into him, it felt like “benevolent lightning,” and at the time he couldn’t imagine any feeling more exhilarating or intoxicating than that. So I apologized. I apologized for not having magic anymore, for not being able to give him that feeling anymore.

“You do, though, Simon,” he had said. “I feel it right now.” And then, of course, we’d proceeded to make out for hours until our lips were raw, because how could I resist him after that? (Always such a fucking sweet-talker.)

I held the necklace up to get a better look at it before Baz offered to put it on for me. “Why a necklace, though?”

“I always liked you in a necklace,” he said as he leaned in so he could place it around my neck. “I just didn’t like the style you chose.”

“You have done wonders for my fashion sense, Baz, thank you,” I joked.

He smiled and kissed me one more time. “I wish I could say the same.”

***

Baz actually wore the hat, though. Not just from the King’s Cross concourse to his platform, but throughout the winter. I barely even had to nag him about it.

So I made him a scarf the next year—though it was much more dignified-looking than mine—because I thought he would appreciate that. And he did.

The following year, I knit him a pair of gloves. I even stitched conductive thread into some of the fingertips so he could use a touchscreen without taking the gloves off.

By the fourth year, I was finally brave enough to try my hand at making a pair of socks, which I’d been putting off for ages because I thought turning the heel sounded too complicated, but it really wasn’t so bad.

Our fifth anniversary is coming up in less than a month, though, and when I asked Baz what he wanted me to make for him, he told me he didn’t want me to make anything. He just wants my company, he said.

We’ve had this argument every year for the past four years. Baz always wants me to go with him to his family’s house for Christmas, but I still don’t feel comfortable going. (It’s not that I don’t see his family _at all_ , it’s just that Christmastime brings up a lot of memories regarding his family that I think we’d all like to keep forgotten.)

He usually points out that we never get to spend our actual anniversary day together—because I had stupidly managed to convince him that our anniversary really _is_ Christmas Eve, since it was after midnight when I first kissed him—but this year is different. This year _he_ doesn’t want to go.

I’m a bit surprised to hear it when he tells me. “Why not?” I ask, sitting with my legs up on the sofa between us while he keeps his feet firmly on the floor—as per usual.

“My _father_ ,” he replies, spitting the word out like it’s venom, as his jaw clenches.

I grimace a little. “He’s still not alright with the gay thing? With _us_?”

“What? Oh, I don’t know. Who the fuck cares about that?” he says somewhat distractedly, like he’s fixating on a particular spot on the rug that requires all his focus.

“Wow, okay then…”

He looks over at me once he realizes how his words sounded. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—Just, he’s never going to be one hundred percent alright with it, so why even bother trying to convince him?” he says. “Especially when I don’t think anything I ever do will make him proud of me.”

“You know that’s not true, Baz,” I tell him, but he rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, well he’s still pissed that I decided to stay in London for my Master’s instead of finally going to Oxford, like he always hoped I would.”

“Enough that he doesn’t want you there at Christmas?”

“Enough that _I_ don’t want me there at Christmas,” he says.

“So, what, you’re just not going?” I ask skeptically. “You’ll just sit around your flat sulking the whole time? At _Christmas_?”

“I don’t know,” he grumbles. “Maybe we could go on a trip or something.”

“You want to go on a trip with me?”

“No, Snow, I meant my _other_ thick-headed boyfriend.” He looks at me pointedly and I slink back in my seat a little. “I think a trip would be a good way to spend our fifth anniversary, anyway,” he adds, and then smirks. “Rekindle the magic we’ve lost after so many years in each other’s company.”

“Very funny, Baz,” I reply, nudging his side with my foot.

His expression shifts suddenly. “Sorry, I didn’t… I wasn’t trying to make a dig about your magic,” he says.

“I know that,” I say with a laugh. “But you’re trying to make it sound like you no longer find me irresistible.” I raise my eyebrows humorously, because I know that sitting here in my trackie bottoms and t-shirt full of holes—which I can’t throw away because it’s my favourite—I must look an absolute _mess_.

Baz lets out an exaggeratedly wistful sigh. “If only that were possible, Snow,” he teases.

We end up watching a film for the rest of the evening before he heads back to his own flat, since it’s closer to his class first thing in the morning. It’s not until he leaves that it really hits me. Our fifth anniversary is a kind of a big deal.

I know he said he doesn’t want me to make him anything, he just wants to spend time with me, but I can’t very well let him take me on a trip without giving him something special in return. So I pick up my laptop once he’s gone and start searching Ravelry for the perfect pattern, which I find in under an hour.

It’s a pullover jumper with a shawl collar and an argyle-like panel of cabling on the front. Definitely the most challenging pattern I’ll have ever attempted, but I think it will look great on him. And what better way to let him know how much he means to me than to pour my blood, sweat, and tears into something like this? (Figuratively speaking, of course.)

He’s going to love it almost as much as I love him, I just know it.

This is going to be our best anniversary yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was curious, the hat Simon made was using [this pattern](https://www.faerwear.com/free-slouchy-knit-hat-pattern-arrow/), which I've made for my partner, who still wears it years and years later. And the sweater he found was [this pattern](https://www.interweave.com/store/knitting/knitting-patterns/donegal-sweater-knitting-pattern-download?utm_source=ls&utm_medium=affiliate&cid=affiliate&siteID=05t1rdpCdm4-vY6nbY6LHcd6Q9wRpDfZWQ&ranMID=37853&ranEAID=05t1rdpCdm4&ranSiteID=05t1rdpCdm4-vY6nbY6LHcd6Q9wRpDfZWQ%22), though I haven't tried making it because I have yet to ever finish making a sweater in the past decade, heh.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon gathers everything he needs in order to start making Baz’s jumper, completely oblivious to the curse that plagues all those who dare knit such an item for their boyfriend…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This curse is actually a thing, which I didn’t know back when I started knitting my partner a sweater (vest) after we began dating almost 9 years ago. I never finished it, though, so thankfully we are still together. Lol.

After searching online a bit longer to find the perfect yarn to use—a merino, cashmere, and silk blend in a deep red colour—I looked up where to buy it in London. The only place I could find that claims to carry it is at the other end of the city, not my usual yarn shop.

But since I just finished uni this past spring, and I’m not yet working—I’m currently living off my leprechaun’s gold, which Baz taught me how to invest properly—I have plenty of time for the long tube ride over there, so I make a point of going the very next morning so I can get a jump on things.

I get to the shop shortly after it opens, and I think I must be the first customer of the day. The shopkeeper seems rather pleased to see me. She looks no more than ten years older than me, so maybe she’s just glad to see young people take an interest in knitting.

I find the yarn I’m looking for, and there are eight skeins of it left in stock, which is precisely the amount that I need. (Though I usually like to get an extra one just to be safe. Oh well.)

I examine the tags on each of the skeins to make sure they are all from the same dye lot before I proceed to the checkout. The shopkeeper is busy hanging up packages of circular needles on the wall behind the counter, but she stops and turns to face me when she hears me approach.

“That was quick,” she says, a little surprised.

“Heh, yeah,” I reply with a hesitant chuckle. I’m guessing that not everyone who comes in already knows the exact yarn they want before they get there, so it must seem a bit strange.

She’s still smiling though. “Great choice, though. What’re you making?” she asks while she types the price of the yarn into her computer.

“Er, a jumper,” I tell her. “Sort of a Christmas and anniversary gift for my boyfriend.”

“Wow,” she says, stopping to look at me, slightly incredulous. “That’s brave of you.”

“Okay…” I’m not sure what the brave part of that is. Attempting to make a jumper in under a month? Or openly admitting that I’m queer to a stranger? Either way, I feel pretty confident about it, so it doesn’t matter.

“Have a great day,” she adds with a smile when she hands me the bag with my purchase after I’ve paid. “And good luck.”

***

I can’t wait to get home and start knitting, but first I have to do what is probably the worst, most tedious task in the entire universe: wind the yarn into balls. When Penny still lived here, she would sometimes spell the skeins of yarn into balls for me, but since she moved to America to be with her boyfriend, I’ve been stuck doing it all by hand.

It’s not usually this bad, though. Most of my projects only take one or two skeins of yarn, so I watch a film or something while I wind them up. But eight of them…

I pick out a series to binge-watch on Netflix so I can start winding, but I only manage to get halfway through the second skein when I see the text from Baz.

_“Class was awful. I’m coming over. Bringing lunch.”_

I check the timestamp and realize that he could arrive here any minute, and I have eight skeins’ worth of yarn spread across the sofa, and no reasonable way to explain it being there without spoiling the surprise.

I quickly scoop up the yarn and carry it to my bedroom where I dump it on my bed and cover it with the blanket just before the buzzer goes off by the door. I run over to answer it and let Baz into the building—he does have his own copy of the key, but he only uses it if I’m not home and he really needs to get in. (He likes to joke that it’s because he needs permission to enter my home every time, but I know that’s not true.)

After unlocking the door, I rush back to the living room to double check that I didn’t leave any evidence behind, only to find that one of the skeins of yarn had fallen to the floor. But I don’t have time to put it in my room, because I can hear the front door opening, so I just kick it under the sofa and hope Baz doesn’t notice.

He raises an eyebrow when he sees me standing next to the couch. “Why are you being weird?” he asks.

I let out a nervous laugh. “I’m always weird,” I say, before pointing to the Pret a Manger bag in his hand. “Did you get me a Christmas lunch sandwich?”

“Of course,” he says as he lifts the bag slightly. “I’ll grab us some plates—”

I reach over and take it from him. “Not necessary,” I reply, pulling my sandwich out before handing the bag back. “Plates only slow me down.”

He snorts a laugh and heads to the kitchen to get a plate for himself before joining me on the sofa—eating at a proper table is for wimps, in my opinion. I make a small noise of disgust when I see the sandwich he’s chosen for himself, the brie and cranberry baguette. (I’m not a big fan of pistachios.)

We eat in silence, as usual, mostly because I can’t be bothered to talk when I’ve got food to eat, and he has trouble talking when his fangs come out. I finish my sandwich first, of course, and he gives me half of his baguette—I pick out all the pistachios, and then it’s fine.

“So what was so bad about your class today?” I ask once we’re both done eating.

“It was just a waste of my time, I guess,” he says, leaning back in his seat with a defeated sigh. “I think I was the only one there who actually did the reading, so the whole class was basically just an overview of things I already know. Exams are soon, and it was just… pointless.”

“Sorry to hear that…”

“Yeah, well. Doesn’t matter.” He runs his hand through his hair, which he’s started growing longer again this year.

I take over for him and stroke back the strands of hair from his face as I tuck my legs up onto the sofa between us. I know he usually finds this calming; right now he’s even smiling a little.

“So, I’ve been thinking more about our anniversary,” he adds, and for a second I worry that he’s figured out my gift idea for him, somehow. “And I know that it’s a bit cliché, but maybe we could go to Paris? Or possibly Madrid? Unless you have somewhere you’d rather go. I’ll be happy going anywhere with you.”

“Oh, uh, anything’s fine with me, too,” I tell him, relieved but a bit surprised. I wasn’t sure he’d been serious about going on a trip with me for our anniversary, considering it would coincide with Christmas—I didn’t think he would actually skip spending the holiday with his family.

He turns his head to smirk at me. “You’re such a pushover, Snow.”

“Hey! I am not. I’m just not picky about where we go.”

“You do… want to go, though. Right?”

I stop fussing with his hair and look him in the eye. “Of course I do.”

His smile returns just before he leans over and kisses me, and I feel so incredibly lucky to have a boyfriend who loves me the way Baz does. I had never really imagined such a thing before we became _us_. And not just because I expected to have a girlfriend instead.

I want to tell him all of this, but I don’t know how to say it without sounding stupid. Everything I say always comes out sounding stupid. I’m so bad with words. It’s why I make him things. It’s why I’m making him a jumper, because the amount of time and effort I put into it will come ever-so-slightly closer to showing him how I feel. Even though he’s worth a billion hand-knit jumpers, at least.

It’s a start…

***

I didn’t have time to finish winding up the balls of yarn that night, because Baz spent the night here—I had to quickly move the yarn from the bed to the closet while he was in the bathroom so he wouldn’t find it—and it took me most of the following day to get it all wound.

Over the next few days, I managed to get a few inches of the front section of the jumper completed—I had to restart a couple of times to get the gauge right—in between visits with Baz. I was looking forward to my weekly knitter’s meeting, however, because it meant I’d have three hours of uninterrupted time to work on it, without worrying about Baz stopping by on short notice and making me lose track of which row I was on.

The yarn shop closest to my flat hosts a knitter’s group every Thursday evening, which some of the attendees like to call a _Stitch ’n’ Bitch_ meeting. It pretty much does exactly what it says on the tin; knitters get together to work on projects and chat with each other. Sometimes we talk about our projects or knitting in general, but usually we talk about our personal lives and TV shows we’re watching. Anything, really.

I’m not the only guy who ever shows up, but I’m the only one who shows up consistently, and I have been doing so for a few years now. The group is open to anyone who wants to join, and there’s no commitment, but I’ve become quite good friends with some of the other regulars, like Claire—she’s around my age, though she’s been knitting for much longer, and she always has good suggestions for music I should check out.

“Hiya, Si,” she says when she comes in, patting me on the shoulder as she walks behind my chair to get to the seat next to me.

“Hey,” I reply without lifting my head, as I’m trying to concentrate on not dropping a stitch from the cable hook.

She drops her small project bag onto the table and sits down, shrugging her coat off and letting it hang over the back of her chair. “What’ve you got going on there?”

I don’t respond until I’ve safely knit the cable stitch back onto the needles, making sure to bring it to the correct side of the work so the cabling lays right. “Um, I’m making a jumper,” I tell her once it’s safe to lower my project onto the table. I pick up the pattern I printed off and hand it to her.

“Whoa,” she says as she looks it over. “That looks kind of intense, but cool. You don’t need it done for Christmas, though, do you?”

“Uh, not exactly…”

She eyes me curiously over my evasive answer.

“Technically, I need it done for Christmas Eve,” I reply. “It’s our fifth anniversary.”

“You and Baz?”

“Yeah.”

“Five years. Wow.” Her smile soon shifts to a look of concern. “Wait, are you making this for him?”

“Um, yes?” I say, worried by her tone.

She grimaces. “What about the curse?”

“What?” My nerves are on edge all of a sudden, afraid that she’s going to say something about magic, because I’m not supposed to talk about it with Normals. (Even though I’m a Normal now, too, I suppose.)

“The Curse of the Boyfriend Sweater,” she says seriously.

“What are you talking about?”

“You seriously don’t know?” she asks, and I shake my head. “Sometimes it’s known as ‘The Sweater Curse,’ but it usually happens when it’s for a boyfriend. Basically, if you make a jumper for your boyfriend, you will end up breaking up before it’s finished. It’s like… a law of nature, or something.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I scoff.

“It’s real, though. Look—Hey, Annette,” says Claire, turning her attention to an older woman at the other side of the table who is working on some sort of lacy shawl-like thing. “You’ve had the Curse of the Boyfriend Sweater happen to you, right? I think you told me about it.”

Annette looks up but doesn’t stop knitting. “Oh, absolutely,” she says. “Happened with my now-ex, right before I met my husband. It worked out well, though, since I wouldn’t have married him if I’d stayed with that guy, hah.”

Claire turns to face me again. “See?”

I shake my head in confusion and look over at Annette. “Wait, so your ex broke up with you because you made him a jumper?”

“More or less,” says Annette.

“You handed him a beautiful handmade item of clothing and he dumped you, just like that?”

“No, Simon, the curse is that you break up _before_ the jumper is completed,” Claire points out.

“That’s even more ridiculous.”

She shrugs.

“Baz isn’t going to dump me for making him a jumper,” I grumble, mostly to myself. There’s no way that’s going to happen.

Absolutely not.

Right?

***

I’ve decided not to believe all this _curse_ nonsense, even though I know that magic is real. It doesn’t work like that, though. The curse is not a real thing. It can’t be. I just know it.

I also know, however, that if I’m going to complete this jumper by our anniversary, I’m going to have to pick up the pace. It’s definitely one of the more challenging patterns I’ve ever attempted, mostly due to the sheer size of it. Definitely bigger than a hat. Not only do I have to knit all the components, but then I have to block them and sew them together—and I’m quite bad at sewing. (I’ll probably ask Claire to show me how, because she’s great at everything.)

It’s getting harder to find extra time to work on it, though, as we move further into December, and Baz has finished his exams. He’s done with school until the new year, which means plenty more time to spend with me. Usually it’s my favourite time of year. Everything is so festive; we visit artisan markets and watch bad Christmas movies and spent nearly every day together for two weeks before he has to go visit his family for the holiday.

But if I do all of that this year, I’ll never finish the jumper.

 _“Did you see that Netflix released a fourth Christmas Prince movie?”_ Baz messages me one afternoon.

I just paused the show I’ve been watching while I knit furiously, so I can read his message and respond. _“Lol no, really?”_

 _“Start the popcorn, I’ll be there in 10,”_ he adds, and my stomach clenches.

I don’t have time to watch a terrible movie with him, as much fun as it sounds. I’ve only got a couple weeks left to finish this, and I haven’t even started the sleeves yet. _“Can’t,”_ I reply. _“Maybe tomorrow?”_

_“You’re joking, right?”_

_“No I’m really busy today.”_

_“Doing what?”_

_“Stuff. Lol.”_

_“Right.”_

I know whenever he says, _“Right,”_ like that, it means I’ve pissed him off, but I don’t know what else to do at the moment. I need to work on his jumper; I can’t just _not_ give him a gift for our fifth anniversary. It’s more important than some silly movie. _“We’ll hang out tomorrow Baz ok?”_

_“Right.”_

_“Love you,”_ I send him, adding a heart and a kissing face.

The three little dots show up to indicate that he’s writing a response, but they disappear after a few seconds, with no message. It’s nearly a minute before I get any sort of response from him.

_“Right.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually love pistachios. And cranberries. And brie. And arugula/rocket. So the brie and cranberry sandwich at Pret around the holidays is my favourite thing ever and I wish I lived in the UK so I could have it every year. Jsyk.
> 
> Also, this fic is set sometime in the not-too-distant future, hence there being fourth _Christmas Prince_ movie, lol. (I haven't actually watched the first one, and I wasn't paying attention through the second, but from what I can remember it was baaaaaaaaad.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon is so dedicated to finishing this jumper on time that it creates problems in his relationship with Baz. Could it be the curse?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading this far, we've made it to the end; three whole chapters! (What a long, arduous journey, am I right?)

I guess I lied.

I didn’t end up seeing Baz the next day, like I said I would. Or the day after that. In fact, it’s been nearly a week since I’ve seen him for more than a five-minute video chat.

I ran into some snags with the jumper and it required even more of my time and attention than I thought it would, so I had to keep cancelling plans with him. I can tell he isn’t too pleased about it, but everything will be worth it on our anniversary when he opens his gift in Paris. Besides, this is the first year we’ll get to spend the holiday together in five years, so we can make up for all this lost time then.

It will all be great once it’s done.

But until then, I have a lot of work to do, so I call to let him know I can’t make it to lunch today.

“Don’t,” he says when he answers his phone.

“Don’t what?” I ask, wondering what ever happened to _hello_.

“Don’t you dare cancel on me again.” He’s using his calm-yet-threatening angry voice with me this time.

“I’m sorry, but I—”

“You can’t keep doing this.”

“Baz, listen—”

“No, Simon,” he says, his tone even but firm. “You can’t keep blowing me off all week and expect me to be okay with it, especially when you can’t seem to give me one decent excuse.”

“I just have a lot of stuff to do,” I tell him, though I know it’s not a sufficient explanation. I can’t exactly tell him the truth, though, or it will spoil everything.

“What _stuff_?” he scoffs, but he still sounds upset. “You’re not in school, you don’t have a job, you don’t even have a social life besides me and your knitting club, so what _stuff_ could you possibly have to do, huh?”

“Wow,” I say, slightly stunned. “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

“It’s true, though, isn’t it? I don’t see how you could possibly have anything going on that’s this important without telling me what it is, unless—” He stops all of a sudden, and I dread what’s about to come next. “Simon, are you—”

“No!”

“—Cheating on me?”

“No, I’m not. I swear!”

“It would explain why you’ve been so evasive and vague about your plans lately,” he says.

“That’s not it, I’m just… busy and stuff—”

“Vague.”

I let out a frustrated sigh. “Yes, I know it’s vague, but just trust me, okay? Nothing’s going on.”

“How do you expect me to trust you when you won’t tell me things?”

“That’s how trust works, Baz,” I reply, irritated that would even think I would do something like that to him. “You have to trust me, even when I can’t tell you everything right away.”

“That’s crap, Simon!” He’s raising his voice, and I can tell by the background noise that he’s currently in public. He hates drawing attention to himself, so he must be pretty pissed off to get this loud. “We can’t keep secrets from each other, not if we want to be together.”

“It’s nothing bad, I promise!”

“Then why can’t you tell me?”

I know I should tell him the truth. I should tell him that I’m making him a jumper for our anniversary and it’s taking more time than I thought it would. But I’m scared. I’m scared that if I tell him, the curse will come true and he will break up with me. It’s absurd, but it’s there, nagging in the back of my mind.

“Because,” I say sadly. “It’s a secret. For now. But it will all make sense soon, okay?”

He goes quiet for a minute but I can tell that he’s still on the line. “Right.”

“Maybe tomorrow I can—”

“No,” he cuts in. “No more of that. There’s no more _maybe tomorrow_ , Simon. I… I don’t even want to see you if you can’t tell me the truth.”

“Look, once we’re in Paris it’ll be—”

He laughs mirthlessly. “We’re not going to Paris anymore.”

“What? Why not?” I ask. It feels like everything is slipping away from me.

“I’m going to visit my family up in Harrogate instead,” he says. “I might even leave tomorrow and surprise my sisters.”

“What about our anniversary, Baz?”

“What about it?”

“You’re abandoning me right before our anniversary,” I say, holding back tears.

“I’m not the one abandoning anything, Snow,” he replies, which stings because he usually only calls me _Snow_ nowadays to be playful, but this sounds spiteful. “That’s all on you.”

“Baz, please—”

I hear the deadness on the other end of the line when he hangs up, and the shock of our entire conversation hits me so hard that I drop my mobile onto the tiled floor of the kitchen, which cracks the screen. When I pick it up again, it’s so damaged that I can’t even use it. I can’t call Baz back right now, which is what I want to do.

I rush over to get my laptop from the coffee table and send him a message, asking him to come round right away, but it never shows as read, not even hours later.

_“Please Baz._

_Come over. We can talk about this._

_Don’t just go like this._

_I can explain._

_Please._

_Please…”_

***

I almost consider not going to _Stitch ’n’ Bitch_ tonight, but I’m still determined to finish this jumper, because it’s the only way to prove to Baz that I had a good reason for being so busy all month. I have to get it done. I just have to.

“That’s really coming along, isn’t it?” Claire says when she glances over at the project in my hands.

I grunt in acknowledgement.

“It looks like you’re almost done, too,” she adds, seemingly ignoring my unfriendly response. She laughs a little. “I guess the curse hasn’t been a problem, then.”

“Baz and I had a fight earlier,” I tell her quietly.

“Wait, really?” She quickly goes from amused to concerned. “Shit, Simon, I’m really sorry, I didn’t know—”

“It’s fine,” I say, since I don’t really want her to feel sorry for me.

“What was the fight about? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“He’s upset that I’ve been blowing him off and giving him vague reasons why I can’t spend time with him lately.”

“You’ve been blowing him off?” she asks with a sympathetic frown.

“Only so I can finish the jumper on time.”

“Ah. So it is the curse.”

“It’s not the curse!” I reply, louder than I intended, which grabs the attention of the couple other people who have showed up so far tonight. (The group is always a bit smaller this close to the holidays.)

“First of all, he didn’t break up with me,” I add, although I’m not entirely sure about that. “And second, he’s angry at me for the way I’ve been acting, not for the jumper itself.”

“But that’s what the curse is, Simon,” Claire says. “It’s not some mystical, magical thing that just happens. It’s the act of making a jumper for one’s partner that creates tension in the relationship.

“Sometimes it’s because the knitter is spending less time with their partner in order to make it,” she continues. “And sometimes it’s because the knitter is more committed to the relationship, which is demonstrated by the commitment to making the jumper, and it freaks out their partner. Sometimes it’s even that the partner doesn’t appreciate the amount of effort and love that went into making it, and the knitter realizes that they deserve someone who does appreciate them.

“There are lots of reasonable explanations for it.” She places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “I just thought I was teasing you when I brought it up, though. Because it sounds like you and Baz are so good together.”

“What difference would that make?” I ask. “If the curse is just going to bulldoze whatever relationship I have, then it doesn’t matter how good it is.”

“But, see, Simon, it’s not like that. All the scenarios I mentioned are just symptoms of relationships that already had problems. Making a jumper just brought them to the forefront sooner,” she says. “If a jumper can break up a couple, then it was likely to happen eventually, anyhow.”

“Oh,” I say quietly, even though I want to scream. I want to take the nearly-completed sleeve in my hands and tear it apart, unravel it all, set it on fire.

But I know that won’t make a difference. If this jumper can come between us, then it must be inevitable. We were doomed from the start.

I pack up my knitting and put on my coat, since there’s no point in me sticking around here.

There’s no point in anything anymore.

***

I fell asleep almost as soon as I got home last night, after coming back early from the knitting group, because the stress of the day was just too exhausting. But I felt a little better once I woke up, and when I looked at the components of the jumper I had made so far, it hit me that I’m so close to being done and, with the way things are now, there’s nothing to lose by finishing it.

Baz could dump me whether I finish it or not, but at least if it’s complete then I have something to show for all of this. And more than that, I have a reason to see him again, even if it’s for the last time.

It’s less than a week now until Christmas Eve, but I know I can get it done in time if I just keep working on it. So I do. Because it’s all I can think to do.

I actually manage to finish all the remaining elements in a couple days, though it takes another day for me to block them into shape by dampening them and stretching them to the right dimensions on a board. It’s a bit cool in my flat so they take a long time to dry.

I email Claire to meet up and help me once it’s time to sew the pieces together, and she shows me how to do it properly so I can assemble the rest of it on my own. After I finish weaving in all the ends and blocking it one more time, this time into the shape a full-fledged jumper, it’s already the 23rd of December. Just in time.

It’s all set. I even manage to get a decorative gift box to package it in, so I don’t have to hand Baz a misshapen lump again. It needs to be perfect this time. It’s my last chance to hold onto… everything. I carefully write a card to accompany the gift, explaining the whole situation, and tuck it into the box once it’s all done.

I’m so anxious about my plan, however, that it takes me forever to fall asleep that night, and I end up sleeping in until mid-morning. I shower and get ready as quickly as I can and make my way to King’s Cross to catch the next available train up north, gift in hand.

It’s only once I’m on the train that I realize I didn’t think to pack any sort of luggage, like an overnight bag, and I also never got around to fixing my mobile yet, so I can’t even let Baz know that I’m on my way. That might be a good thing, though, because if he knew then he very well might just tell me not to come.

This could end disastrously, I know, but I’ve got no choice at this point.

It’s now or never.

***

It’s rather late in the afternoon by the time I arrive at Baz’s family’s house, and I hesitantly step up to the appropriately grand front entrance, taking a couple of deep breaths before ringing the doorbell. It’s not long before someone answers, and while I hoped it would be Baz, it ends up being Vera. I shouldn’t be surprised by this.

She greets me cordially and I ask if I can speak to Baz, still holding the gift box tightly in my grasp. I’m let into the house to wait in the foyer while she goes to fetch him, but she returns shortly, no Baz in sight.

With a commiserative look on her face, she tells me that he does not wish to speak with me at this moment, and my stomach sinks.

“O—Okay,” I reply. I hold out the gift box towards her, my arms shaking. “Can you give this to him, then?”

“Of course,” she says as she gingerly takes the box from me.

“Tell him… that I’m just going to head home,” I add after a moment. “I’ll see him when he gets back to London.” I offer a small, sad smile before turning and leaving, back out into the cold.

I have no way of calling a cab from here, so I have to walk back to the railway station and, by the time I arrive, I’ve just missed a train and I have to wait a while longer. I want to be home now.

Although I suppose it doesn’t make a difference. This is still the end, no matter where I am. Sitting at the station might actually be preferable to sitting at home, where I can’t look at any spot without picturing Baz there. I’m going to have to move to a new flat, I think.

But I’m only able to contemplate the move for a few minutes before I hear those words I thought I would never hear again: “You’re an idiot, Snow.”

I look up to see Baz approaching, his long coat billowing open as he walks, revealing the jumper he’s wearing underneath. The one I made for him.

I’m too shocked to speak, so I just stare at him, mouth agape, as he comes and sits next to me on the bench.

“So, I read the card,” he says, holding up a red envelope. “I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions last week, Simon, but you were acting really strange and I… I should have trusted you, I know that—”

“No, Baz, I should have just told you the truth,” I say before he can keep apologizing for something that was clearly my fault. “I wanted it to be a surprise, but I didn’t mean to hurt you like that, and if I could go back and change everything I would, and—” I stop when he holds onto my hand.

“You’re allowed to surprise me with nice things. I was just being paranoid because, well, I guess it was because I had a surprise for you, too, and I was nervous about it…”

“You had a surprise for me?” I ask. “What was it?”

He glances away, but smiles a little. “I’ll tell you when we get back to my house, all right?”

“We?”

“You are staying for Christmas, aren’t you?” he says, and then looks around me, like he’s trying to locate my luggage.

“I forgot to bring anything but your present,” I admit sheepishly.

“That’s okay, we have everything you’ll need.” He stands up, pulling my arm with him, but I don’t start walking just yet.

“I’m really sorry, Baz,” I tell him. “I’m sorry I got so wrapped up in making you the perfect anniversary gift that I ruined our actual anniversary.”

“It’s not ruined yet, Simon,” he says.

I finally let myself smile as relief washes over me, and begin walking alongside him. “One thing’s for sure, though,” I add with a chuckle. “I’m never making you a jumper again. At least not until we’re married.”

He stops so suddenly that I accidentally keep walking right past him, and I only notice when I feel my arm pull behind me, back towards where he now stands. “You figured it out, didn’t you?” he says.

“Figured what out?”

“I guess there’s no sense waiting, then.” He sighs and lets go of my hand so he can crouch down and tie his shoe.

Or, at least, that’s what I think he’s doing, before I realize his shoes don’t have laces. “Baz, what are you—”

“Simon Snow,” he says in an even and measured tone, as he pulls something out of his coat pocket.

“What is—” I can’t finish my thought as soon as I see that he’s holding a small box, because my heart actually stops for a second.

Baz opens the box to reveal a small gold engagement band inside. “Will you—”

“Yes.”

“—Let me finish?”

“Um, right, sorry. Go on.”

“Simon Snow, will you marry me?”

***

“So you just needed a ring in order to finally decide move in with me, huh?” Baz says as we’re packing up my belongings into boxes for the move. “I didn’t realize you were so old-fashioned.”

“Well, as the ancient proverb says, ‘If you like it then you should have put a ring on it,’” I reply as straight-faced as I can manage, but I can’t restrain myself from laughing for very long.

“Good thing I did, then.” He smirks at me before grabbing the tape dispenser and sealing up the full box in front of him.

I smile as I look down at my hand, twisting the ring around my finger. Although the inscription is on the inside, I still think about it every time I look at the ring itself.

_“I choose you.”_

When I first read the inscription, once we were back at his family’s house, Baz said to me, “Every day, Simon, I choose you. I always will.”

To which I so charmingly replied, “ _Gayyyyy_ ,” because otherwise I was going to start crying.

“You’re an idiot, Snow,” he added, and then kissed me.

“You know what just occurred to me,” I say once he’s done taping up the box. “You had the ring in your coat pocket, even though you weren’t planning on proposing at the railway station…”

“Yeah, well, I just sort of kept it in my pocket for most of December, in case the right moment came up unexpectedly.” He’s looking down, but I can see a hint of a smile on his face.

“And what if the right moment never came up?”

“Then I wouldn’t have to be here, helping you pack up your shit,” he scoffs.

“Seriously, though, Baz. What if the curse had worked?”

“The curse could never work on us,” he says assuredly. He looks me straight in the eye. “We’re both far too stubborn for that.”

I laugh and he smiles again, looking down at his own engagement ring.

I wound up getting him one when we returned to London after Christmas, and although I was really tempted to make the inscription say something funny—“I am _not_ going to wear a ring that says ‘My Immortal’ on it, Snow,” he’d said to me—I went with my heart instead.

_“I choose you, too.”_

Because I do. I choose Baz. Then, now, always.

It’s almost hard to believe, though, that all of this started with a hat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided that Baz's family moved to Harrogate at some point in the last five years, because I hear it's a nice (and expensive) place, and it's also the home of Yorkshire Tea, which is my fave.
> 
> The ending actually went a slightly different direction than I had initially planned, though. In my outline, Simon was going to mail the jumper to Baz, but I thought it would be more romantic for him to take it up there himself. And apparently it was, because now they are engaged (!!!) which was not in the original outline either. Lol. Sometimes these boys just do stuff without my permission. I am merely the writer, not the all-knowing creator.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, I'm going to be super obnoxious and mention that I have a tumblr now for my _Carry On_ shenanigans, [@f-ing-ruthless-baz](https://f-ing-ruthless-baz.tumblr.com), so feel free to befriend me over there because I am so lonely.


End file.
